Читать книгу Bride by Mail - Katy Madison - Страница 12

Chapter Four

I haven’t traveled since my youth, but I have always dreamed of seeing the Rocky Mountains. I was born in New York. In 1853 my family was moving to Boston when the train had an accident. The engineer missed the signal that the drawbridge was open and the cars fell into the water. My parents did not survive and I never made it to Boston. I would like to know more about your home.

The fire burned low. The temperature dropped. Jack pulled a hide over his legs. In a perfect world, his wife would be nestled beside him keeping him warm, and they’d be farther from the road where Kincaid and his ilk could chance upon them. Predators came in all shapes and sizes. He added a branch to the fire. The pine needles flared.

Olivia’s dread of the intimacies couldn’t be clearer. Since leaving town, she’d been unnaturally quiet. Several times she’d jerked away from him. When Jack had hugged her, she’d kept her arms rigidly at her sides.

When she’d allowed him to touch her, she always stared studiously at his chest rather than angle her chin for a kiss.

The last thing he wanted was a wife who submitted but would make it clear she hated every second of intimacy.

But as the hours after midnight ticked by, Jack’s concerns diminished. His thoughts shifted to the strange creature nestled in his wagon. Why had Olivia married him? She should have married a banker or lawyer. She had yet to study the mountains she’d been eager to see. She certainly didn’t look at him. Instead, she pinned her gaze on her clasped hands in her lap.

The wagon creaked and Jack stared in her direction. He forced himself to look away. The dark copse of trees, the meadow and the road remained empty of threats. The horses bowed their heads, sleeping undoubtedly. If he had made the bed bigger he could have crawled in the wagon with Olivia for a few hours of shut-eye.

As he nestled the chick’s warming rocks in the coals, Olivia shifted again. Jack stood and stretched. Fighting sleepiness, he paced.

Was Olivia restless?

After a few minutes, he rolled out the rocks, rewrapped them and placed them in the crate with the chicks. The chicks piled on top of the stones.

Rustling noises emanated from the wagon. Olivia slowly climbed down. For a second she teetered, then found her balance on a wheel spoke. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she approached.

Was she seeking out his company? His spine tightened. He swiveled toward her. “Can’t sleep?”

“I should keep watch the rest of the night so you can sleep.” Her answer came out in a puff of white mist. She stretched shaking hands toward the orange coals.

She wouldn’t know the first thing to look for.

“I could wake you if there is anything amiss.” She covered a yawn.

He doubted she’d manage to stay awake. But she was trying. Jack sank down and patted the hide next to him. “Sit.”

She stared at the bit of hide left open for her.

Giving her more room, he scooted to the edge, although she didn’t need it. His patience, already thin from too long without sleep, cracked. He ordered, “Sit. I won’t bite.”

She sat down fast. A good six inches remained between them. Six inches and a grand canyon.

Her teeth chattered. While the night air was cool, it wasn’t desperately cold. But Olivia was like a hothouse flower that had never had to endure the out-of-doors. This land might destroy her; she was such a pale piece of fluff.

He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped a buffalo skin around them. She tightened like a drawn bowstring. He found her glacial hands and slowly rubbed them. “Don’t fight the cold. Breathe deep.”

She shuddered violently and leaned away from him. He pulled her back against him. “Relax, I’m just warming you.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Jack winced. He ducked his head against her elaborate coif and sighed. Her repulsion made him feel like a coarse, disgusting reptile. Part of him wanted to peel back the layers of material between them and make her his wife, here under the stars with the cold air against his heated skin. Yet he hated to think what her response might be.

He’d planned on waiting until they returned to the cabin, so she could have the privacy of four walls and the comfort of a bed, but he suspected the wait might be much longer. He’d never felt a strong urge to bed a reluctant woman, not when shared desire was so much better.

Even as cold as Olivia was, she wouldn’t appreciate the warmth generated by an exchange of body heat. She held herself rigid. His coarseness might be too much for her. He wasn’t a dapper popinjay and never would be. If she’d thought by bringing him a fancy shirt and coat she could refine him, she was wrong.

Her soft hair tickled his nose. She smelled of lavender soap. He traced his fingers over the wedding band. She had a lady’s hands, soft, smooth, suited for playing a pianoforte or tatting lace, not hard work. Still he resisted the urge to nuzzle her slender neck. He didn’t want to inflict his attentions on her.

She balled her hand and the ring wobbled on her finger. He prodded it back and forth.

“I can get this resized.”

“I’ll wrap yarn around the inside so it doesn’t fall off.”

Did she not want the ring to fit? He tensed. “I’m sure the jeweler won’t mind.”

“Where you bought it?”

“Where I had the ring fashioned from gold I found in my creek.” Jack wished he could take back the words. If she thought the gold band too simple, she now knew he was solely responsible. He’d put a piece of his home on her finger and had the ring specially made for her.

“Is there more gold in your creek?”

For the first time since he married her, she sounded eager. Cold seeped inside him, jabbing under his breastbone. Jack stopped rubbing her fingers. “I haven’t looked for more.”

If she wanted riches, she shouldn’t have come to the Colorado Territory. Even if a man had money, he couldn’t buy luxuries found in an Eastern city. Or get purchases to his cabin. He’d had a hell of a time hauling in the cookstove purchased from settlers who were giving up.

He hadn’t wanted a woman who expected gifts for the privilege of touching her, but he should have given Olivia a wedding gift. She’d brought a shirt and jacket. His puny purchase of a tea tin seemed pathetic. Even though the ring was gold, he hadn’t bought it, either.

“Are you warmer?” He heard anger in his voice and regretted that the lack of sleep made his emotions raw.

“Yes, of course.” She stood and wrapped the blanket tightly around her. “Thank you.” Her voice was stretched taut.

Jack rubbed his scratchy eyes. He hadn’t meant she had to get off his lap. He hadn’t meant that at all. He stood, too, and he supposed the dark and the tiredness and the disappointment made him say, “Why did you marry me?”

“I had to. The mill closed,” she blurted.

Stunned, he stood still. “The mill closed,” he repeated slowly. For the first time since they’d been married, she really looked at him. The brassy glow of the fire illuminated her wide soulless eyes.

“When?”

“December. The cotton shipments stopped. Because of the war.”

Before she’d written him back after receiving his photograph.

Her pale features twisted in anguish and that perfect Cupid’s-bow mouth opened to speak or squeak as she was wont to do. “I had to—”

“Don’t make it worse.” He warned. The words of caution were for him as much as for her. Her beauty should have been the first clue. She wasn’t a regular mail-order bride. But like a sore tooth, he couldn’t resist probing it. “The mill closed. And you had no other options?”

“No.” She ducked her head again, and perhaps that was better. She hadn’t come West because she wanted to be married. No, she had considered marrying him a last resort. Given that she wasn’t suited for life out here, she wouldn’t last long if her heart wasn’t in it.

He leaned over and snatched up the rifle and stalked toward the wagon. Blood roared in his ears, and his stomach churned. She didn’t want to be here. The neatly penned words of eagerness were lies.

God, how could he have been such a fool?

* * *

Olivia wished she hadn’t blurted out about the mill closing. She had picked him from all the other advertisements, but saying so seemed to leave her too exposed. She sank down.

When she received his letter and photograph, she’d been so grateful. She’d thought he wanted her.

But his impatience was tangible. Her shortcomings overshadowed everything else. Not being wanted shouldn’t surprise her. She wasn’t calm natured or brave, or much of a helpmate in this unfamiliar environment, but she could learn. He just needed to give her a chance.

Rocking back and forth, she fought the chill that was not only from the night air, but deep in her heart. Since her parents’ deaths, she hadn’t been wanted anywhere.

She would show him marrying her hadn’t been a mistake. Just as she had convinced them at the mill she was worth keeping. The shock of hard work had almost made her fail, but she wasn’t a pampered young teen anymore.

A decade ago she thought she’d marry a man who wore suits and worked in an office like her papa. Men like that in Norwalk regarded mill girls as social inferiors and steered clear. While no man in Connecticut had ever approached her, the men in Denver City had swarmed her. He had to see that she had value.

Jack returned and nestled an iron skillet down in the coals and set a heavy lid on the top. “We might as well get an early start. Seeing as how we’re both awake.”

Demonstrating her lack of cooking skills wasn’t the best way to show her worthiness. Uneasiness curdled her stomach. She stood. “What should I do?”

He grabbed the lantern and lit it. The light illuminated his stoic expression. He strode back to the wagon and shoved things around. “Just sit. I’ll get things done faster if you aren’t in my way.”

“I know I’m not what you expected,” muttered Olivia as she sank down onto the buffalo hide.

She wanted to curl into herself and disappear. “When you sent your photograph, I wanted...wanted to marry you.” She could hardly speak to a man for most of her life and now she blurted out the most pathetic details.

The rattling in the wagon stopped. “Because of a photograph—” incredulity rang in his voice “—you decided to marry me?”

Olivia twisted her hands together. “You looked like a man who could face the world and survive.” His appearance of solid strength drew her like metal filings to a magnet. Yet his descriptions of the beauty of his home showed he was not a brute. “I thought you could protect me.”

“I can’t protect you, Olivia.” His rustling resumed. “I spend weeks at a time trapping. Life here is demanding and a woman needs to hold her own. I thought I was clear about that.”

He sounded resigned.

“You were clear,” she mumbled. She was the deceiver.

“You had choices. There are men in town looking for brides.”

“Because not being able to cook would have been an asset in town,” she spit out.

“You’ve never cooked at all, have you?” he asked with a deadly quiet to his voice.

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d marry me if I told you.”

He bent forward and didn’t say anything for a bit. Then he picked up the shirt she’d made for him and held it up. “A lot of the miners in California are wearing rags. A shirt like this would fetch a dollar, maybe five. They can get material, but they don’t know how to sew.”

How would she have known? But that was neither here nor there. She lifted her chin. “I chose you. I only wrote to you.”

“Lucky me.”

Selina had written to at least three men and Anna never would say how many different advertisements she answered. Olivia swallowed hard. Surely she hadn’t been the only one to respond to his request for a wife. He must have chosen her, too.

“I didn’t want to live in a tent or a...or a dugout.” She had to hold her hands tightly to keep from waving them around to make her point.

“Fine,” he said with finality, as if the subject had been exhausted. “It’s done now.”

But it wasn’t done. The preacher had said they had a month to decide. Jack could still reject her. Tremors rolled down her spine and her stomach knotted. She bit her lip. “Do you intend to take me back to Denver City and pretend this marriage never happened?”

“Is that what you want me to do? Have you decided you’ve made a mistake?” he asked, his voice rough.

Had she made a mistake?

“N-no.” She shook her head and stared down at her clasped hands. “I’m not the one who is disappointed.”

“Yes, you are, if you expected a full-time protector.” He left the wagon and his boots stopped in front of her.

She drew in a deep breath, hoping for an olive branch. Her gaze traveled up his buckskin-clad legs. Her breath left her in an unexpected whoosh. He was the embodiment of the man in the photograph. Strikingly attractive, strong yet domesticated with a pot cradled against his ribs... Just grouchy. His eyebrows knit. He had stayed up all night protecting her and the livestock.

Jack dropped a tin pan beside her. Outstretched in his hand was a chunk of butter. “Here.”

She stared at the butter. What was she supposed to do with it?

“Grease the pan with that.”

Olivia picked up the tin and carefully took the butter. She smeared the butter in a circle in the bottom of the pan.

Jack dropped to his knees beside her.

He hadn’t denied being disappointed in her. She fought back the bitter familiarity of failing to meet expectations. Determined to show she could do a good job, she dragged her fingers in left and right lines. She tried to erase her finger marks only to leave new trails.

He combed a fork through a whitish mass in the pot he held against his stomach. “Get the sides, too.”

In the predawn darkness, Jack’s gaze weighed heavily on her. Her throat felt thick. Could she just get one thing right? Why hadn’t she paid attention to the kitchen servants when she was younger?

Jack reached for the bucket of water and cracked the thin layer of ice on the top. He dipped a towel in the water and held it out. “Clean your hands.”

Could he be any more condescending? He treated her as if she was three. Olivia wiped butter residue off her hands.

“How does it happen you’ve reached the age of two and twenty and never cooked?” Jack scooped a handful of water into the mixture. He ended up with a sticky dough.

“We had servants,” she muttered.

“You, Anna and Selina?”

Olivia looked up. Jack watched her as he fashioned the gooey mess into pale lumps and put them in the tin on her lap.

“No, my parents. At the boardinghouse, our landlady, Mrs. Richtor, didn’t allow us in the kitchen because she thought we stole food.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Did you?”

Olivia’s cheeks heated and she dropped her gaze. She hoped with the dark he couldn’t see her guilty flush.

He reached across and pressed another lump into the tin. His hand so close to her leg made her feel squishy and soft.

She picked the pan up and held it out to him. “The price of boarding included breakfast and supper, but if we bought dinner, no money was left. So we took extra food at meals. I suppose it was stealing.”

“What about after your parents died? Where did you live then?”

“An older lady in Norwalk took me in.” The elderly Miss Carmichael had failing eyesight and had wanted Olivia to read. Her benefactor had been disappointed when Olivia stuttered. Was she destined to disappoint everyone who took her in?

“She didn’t eat?”

Olivia smiled in spite of herself. The movement of her face felt funny, as if it had been a long time since she’d smiled. “She had a cook. After she died I lived in a mill dormitory for a year and a half. They fed us gruel in the mornings and soup for dinner and supper. I hardly ate for the first week. I really missed good cooking.”

Jack used the dry edge of the towel to lift the lid off the skillet, put the tin inside and settle the lid back on the pot. With the wet end, he brushed off his hands. “You didn’t have any relatives?”

She shook her head. “The only relatives I know of are in Norway, and I’ve never met them.”

He reached out a hand to Olivia. “We have fifteen minutes to wash up before the biscuits are ready.”

Biscuits. If she’d seen him assemble the ingredients, she’d have an idea how to make them. “What did you put in them?”

“Look, I’ll show you when we get home. Right now we need to get washed up so we can leave at first light.” Jack tilted his head back. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

Olivia looked up to discern what he saw. Were the stars perhaps a little less bright? She’d never spent a night out of doors. She had no idea what signs to look for, or what sounds signaled danger.

“Are you coming?” Jack asked, his hand still extended.

She put her fingers in his. His warm fingers closed over hers. Her heart jolted. She jerked her hand back as if she’d been scalded.

Jack’s expression went flat.

Ashamed she’d responded so strongly, she curled her fingers.

He pivoted and headed toward the trees.

Olivia trotted a couple of steps after him before realizing she didn’t have what she needed. “I need my things from my trunk.”

She turned toward the wagon. Jack hesitated.

Her trunk was near the back, but unfortunately the latch faced the side. Olivia pushed and shoved to turn it.

“Move,” said Jack.

“I have it,” she said through gritted teeth. Her shoulder strained. In the months since the mill closed, she’d lost strength, but she was determined to show Jack she wasn’t a helpless liability. She could do things for herself.

With his arm around her waist, he lifted her out of the way. Her backside pressed against his hip as he leaned around her. His chest shifted across her back. Olivia fought the hot tremors that raced down her spine.

Jack yanked the trunk around with one hand and set her back down on the wagon gate. “Hurry.”

Her breath whooshed out, and she realized she’d been holding it. Though she fought to quell it, a kind of terror settled into the pit of her stomach every time he manhandled her. He was so much bigger than her, stronger. He could snap her in two if he had a mind to, yet that wasn’t quite why she was afraid.

She unfastened the buckles and opened the latch. She fished out a paper-wrapped bar of precious lavender soap and a hand towel.

Jack shifted with tangible impatience. “Don’t want to burn the biscuits.”

She scooted to the edge of the tailgate. Jack’s hand at her elbow tugged as well as supported her as she scrambled down. She was eager to wash. She longed for a bath and a chance to wash her hair. Although fifteen minutes was only long enough for the bare minimum.

Jack released her elbow then grabbed his rifle. He lifted the lantern high enough to cast a circle of golden light around them. He led her across the meadow to the thicket of trees. Olivia raised her knees, high-stepping through the underbrush.

As they neared the woods, the smell of pine filled her as well as the crisp scent of fresh spring growth. Norwalk had never smelled like this, nor had the Manhattan brownstone where she’d lived with her parents.

She inhaled deeply. The gurgling of rushing water lured her deeper into the darkness. The air smelled fresh, like after a rainstorm had cleaned the air. Ghostly white spindly trees vied with the thick pines for space. Wisps of fog and their breath hovered in the air. The grove resembled a primeval world not yet inhabited by man.

Except Olivia was all too aware of the man beside her. His every movement set off a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. He set the lantern on a rock and leaned his rifle against a tree. He drew his shirt over his head. Spellbound, Olivia stared at the bare expanse of his chest. His bronzed skin stretched over rippled muscle.

Jack jumped onto a large rock, startling her out of her reverie. She folded her arms over her chest to settle the odd tightening in her nipples.

Cold, she told herself. The damp air around the stream was cold. Yet oddly heated and loose jointed would better describe her current state.

Jack leaned out over the edge of the rock and splashed water onto his chest and shoulders. The play of his muscles under his skin was fascinating. He dipped his face in the rushing water and then threw his head back. Droplets arced through the air, catching the light from the lantern and then fading into the darkness beyond the circle of illumination.

He turned toward her, shut one eye and swiped water away from his face with a broad hand. “I thought you wanted to wash.”

“Yes, of course.” Olivia stepped gingerly toward the edge of the rushing water. The stream frothed around rocks and boulders. The sides lapped at grassy shoals. She stepped close, but her foot sank and tore grass from the soggy bank. With Jack watching her, she didn’t want to slip.

Jack lathered up with a brown bar.

Wary of the rushing water and the dark shadows concealing who knew what, Olivia stepped onto a large rock. Her chosen perch was not as flat as his. She wobbled, fighting for her balance.

Kneeling on the surface, she reached down into the icy water and flinched. “That’s c-cold.”

“Snowmelt off the mountains.” Jack stood and brushed water from his arms. He shoved the wet tendrils of his hair back from his face. “Streams around here are always cold.”

Scarcely able to look away from him, Olivia cupped water in her rapidly growing-numb fingers and raised it to her face.

“Want this?” he asked. He held out the brown bar.

“I brought my own, thank you.” Olivia unwrapped the perfumed bar of factory-milled soap she’d bought in Connecticut.

“The biscuits are probably done.” Jack leaped off his rock and retrieved his shirt.

Although the icy water made her shiver and shake, Olivia lathered her face and neck. Taking care not to get her clothes wet, she rinsed.

Jack lifted the lantern, casting the stream around her into darkness. Undoubtedly he was impatient to get back. Olivia placed the soap back in its paper wrapper and dunked her hands in the frigid flow. Wiping her hands on her towel, she stood. She stepped toward the side of the stream.

Jack leaned and retrieved his rifle. The lantern swung behind him and the illumination disappeared as she stepped onto another stone. The wet surface of the stone provided no purchase. Her demi-boots were barely meant for walking, and the thin heels made her skid worse. Off-balance, Olivia flayed. The precious soap squirted out of her hand and plopped into the stream.

She twisted to retrieve it. Her heel skidded sideways and slipped off the rock. She pitched forward. She caught her soap just before her face hit the surface. The icy blast made her gasp.

Water filled her mouth and nose. The freezing water stabbed with a thousand pricks. Coughing and sputtering, she thrashed. The rushing stream rammed her, knocking her feet sideways. Her lungs refused to fill with air. Rocks shifted under her hands and knees. Each time she tried to find purchase, the bed shifted. The knifing flow relentlessly tossed her like a cork.

God, she didn’t want to drown now.

The memories of clawing to be free of the underwater train wreckage flashed in her head, jumbling with the pounding of the creek water. The same sense of imminent death coldly knifed her. Her throat tightened. Silent screams echoed in her head.

She had to survive. Her hands scraped the streambed. If she could reach the bottom, surely she could push up. Her lungs fought to expel the inhaled water. Choking, she convulsed, coughing.

No! She wouldn’t die now. Not like this. She scrabbled against the rocky bottom. Her thick, sodden skirts caught the water like sails. Their weight dragged her. The rush of water swept her along. Her head glanced off a rock. Her starved lungs sucked in water as blackness closed in.